Happiness by the spoonful

More than a week of snow, bitter temperatures, ankle-deep slush and freezing fog forced a new routine on my family: At 8:30 a.m., the six of us pile into our one car and I make a giant loop — kids at school, husband at work, milk or eggs at the grocery store and home again.

One morning we passed a boy that left me feeling punched in the stomach.

He was running to school wrapped in a fleece Spiderman blanket, which loosely covered his T-shirt and backpack and flapped about his ankles. He looked about 10.

Is this a kid who rejects a jacket on the grounds of style? Is this a parent practicing tough-love and natural consequences? Is this poverty?

My children’s friends come over to play in the snow and have no boots, jackets or mittens. They’re fingers are bright pink, their shoes soaked when I invite them inside for hot chocolate.

The school hands out jackets, backpacks, some children regularly receive bags of groceries, and weekly all students get a healthy snack thanks to the federal Fresh Fruit and Vegetable Program.

“Why do they give you that?” my son asked his friend, peeking inside the bag at the juice boxes, cereal and cans of soup.

“Because my family’s poor.”

It’s not always easy to tell, but I know some of my neighbors struggle to survive because I’ve been mistaken for being in their shoes. Twice cars have stopped me as my children and I walked down the street. The first driver handed me a flier about a church event involving food. (We’ll have hot dogs, lots of them and they’re free!) The second driver wanted to give me groceries.

“No, no. I’m good, thank you. Take them to the food bank,” I said.

And I walked on feeling humble and grateful for our steady income, warm clothes and food. Gifts, indeed.